Sometimes I joined them for an evening pipe after a trek around my extended boundary, grown a thousand acres courtesy of the Mexican gold found in Max Hadley’s saddle-bags. Yes, Max crossed my mind from time to time, and I pictured his bleaching bones hidden in a dry wash to the south of San Pedro. I saw in my mind’s eye the black ravens flying high once again among the rocky crags above the Circle V. Only once did I refer to the shooting of Frank Vagg when, one early evening, I saw her on the porch seat gazing out into nothingness, the thousand yard stare of the weary trooper. Seeing only her own pain and reflection in an event she had little control over, a regret I could not share it with her. I told her it was always like that: taking a life in any circumstances was not something she would ever forget. I also told her that by killing Vagg, a very sick man, and in saving my life she had done us both a great service. I hope that gave her some comfort, but only time will tell.
It was a gentle, even romantic time for the both of us and for my friends in Peaceful, but I wondered on some of the darker midnight evenings sitting on the stoop, alone with my pipe while Henrietta slept warm in our bed, just how long it would last. How long would it be before Joshua Beaufort or Jacob Benbow came calling and I would saddle up and once again ride hard to the sound of gunfire? In moments like those, Poe’s words would come to me: ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary . . .’ But I cast them aside; the San Pedro ravens were happy and content, so why should I not be? Sometimes I believe that I may be too well read.
Where No Ravens Fly Page 11